


Status, Please

by HighFunctioningHufflepuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, References to Suicide, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighFunctioningHufflepuff/pseuds/HighFunctioningHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock broke and pulled out his phone, small with a chip in it from fighting with the assassin trained on Mrs. Hudson a year and a half ago. "Status."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Status, Please

Warnings: angst, Reichenbach separation, references to suicide idealation  
BBC Sherlock does not belong to me, it belongs to BBC, the Mofftiss and Sir ACD  
Based off the gif found here: http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2olgm7LRq1qewsw4o1_500.gif  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock was in Kazakhstan, situated in a small inn for the night. There was a blizzard swarming in that had closed most of the population in their homes for the next few days—the perfect time and place for a murder. Sherlock had tracked the leader of Moriarty’s human trafficking ring to here, where the man would be for the next week due to the weather and its repercussions.

Sherlock would be here for the next forty-eight hours, at most.

He had sent Mycroft a completely coded and encrypted email giving the personal status, location and plans for his current location. Tomorrow he would find from the current man the location of the assassin known as Moran, the last man in the puzzle.

Sherlock steepled his fingers together against his chin and blew out a breath.

_John._

He was so close his hands were shaking. Three years of constantly being on the run, of sift-track-kill-sift-again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, but he knew that when he had he had seen John on one of Molly’s tables, bright light making the contrast between white-grey skin and the red marks of I O U carved into his chest sickening. A bullet wound through the heart— _I will burn the heart out of you_ —the cause of death. 

Sherlock opened his eyes against the image and raised his head, as if to turn away from the sight. He was so close to being able to go home.

How had John fared after the funeral? Did John still make tea the same? Did he still buy the only brand of biscuits Sherlock ate? Was he still working at the same place, or had he moved from 221b and changed jobs?

Did he still think of Sherlock?

Sherlock hoped not, yet still hoped so. It would be easier if John could delete him, yet if John deleted him, what would he come back to?

Would he still love Sherlock?

Sherlock broke and pulled out his phone, small with a chip in it from fighting with the assassin trained on Mrs. Hudson a year and a half ago.

_Status._

It was a few minutes before he received a reply, and he waited anxiously through each one. It was the first text he had dared risk since the end of the first year.

_Single. Employed. No current illness. Continuing chronic insomnia, weight loss. Ceased seeing therapist._

Sherlock had barely read the last word before a new message popped up.

_I suggest you hasten your schedule. Sleeping medication treated by perscription, yet information leads me to believe little sleep is being had._

_What do you mean?_

_Hurry up. You’re on a count-down. Consider this the last pip._

_Can’t you stall him?_

_I have already done so. Hurry up._

Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

_Don’t do anything stupid, John._

Then, feeling like time—John’s time—was slipping between his fingers no matter how hard he clenched them tight, he tipped his head back and looked at the stars beyond the window.

_Please._


End file.
